CARLOS THE BANDIT
Jack and Ken did not understand the words, but the meaning was clear
enough.
The smiling, hard-faced man who confronted them was a bandit.
Before they could make any response to his command, he fired a shot. The
bullet nipped into the dirt at Jack’s feet.
Thus warned that the grizzled little man was not one with whom to
trifle, the two Scouts quickly raised their hands.
The shot had brought War, Willie and Jose out of the shelter. They too
were instantly covered and forced to line up with their faces to a tree.
The bandit kept up a patter of Spanish which only Jose could understand.
Shaking with fear, he interpreted for the others.
“The bandit is Carlos, who long has terrorized the hills,” he told them
nervously. “He says he will not harm anyone, if his commands are obeyed.
We are to turn over all money and watches. If we refuse, he shoot to
kill!”
Willie and War began to empty their pockets. Jack and Ken were more
deliberate. Their delay brought an exclamation of impatience from the
bandit.
Carlos gazed sharply about the camp, evidently aware that only five
persons were accounted for. What had become of Mr. Livingston, Jack
wondered. He remembered that the Scout leader had slipped away from camp
for a moment to bring in more fire wood. Surely, he must have been
alerted by the firing of a shot!
Carlos swiftly scooped up the money and watches which the Scouts
reluctantly turned over. But before he could stuff the loot into the
pouch he carried at his belt, there came a sharp command from the
darkness behind the bandit.
“Hands up or I’ll shoot!”
The voice was Mr. Livingston’s! The Scouts knew that their leader was
unarmed. Carlos, however, had no such knowledge.
Startled, he whirled around and fired blindly into the darkness.
In that instant, when the man’s attention was diverted from the captives
by the fire, Jack and Ken acted together.
Lunging forward, they tackled the bandit below the knees. He went down,
and in the brief but fierce struggle, they succeeded in knocking the
weapon from his hand.
With the agility of a jungle cat, Carlos squirmed from Jack’s grasp.
Slipping back into the foliage, he was swallowed by the darkness.
Jack groped and finally found the lost weapon. He started in pursuit.
“Let him go,” ordered Mr. Livingston, who had emerged into the circle of
flickering firelight. “We can’t possibly overtake him, and it’s risky to
try. He’ll have a horse tethered somewhere near.”
As the Scouts listened, they heard the bold bandit’s retreating
footsteps. Then all became silent in the forest.
“What if he comes back later, maybe with some of his followers?” War
asked anxiously.
“We have his gun, so I don’t think he’ll be back tonight,” Mr.
Livingston replied. “Good work, Jack! I thought you and Ken would react
as you did! Any of our stuff missing?”
The Scouts took careful inventory. In his haste to escape, the bandit
had left behind all the cash and jewelry.
“I doubt Carlos will try another raid tonight, knowing we’ll be on the
alert,” Mr. Livingston commented. “All the same, we’ll set up a guard.”
The incident was more disturbing to Jose than to the Scouts. For hours
after the bandit had gone, he huddled in his blanket, his back to a
tree, fearfully watching the shadows.
In broken English, he related to the Explorers that Carlos was well
known for his cruelty and bold ways. Somewhere in the hills he
maintained a hide-out with a few faithful but disreputable followers.
The Colombian government had placed a price upon his head. But no one
ever had claimed the reward. Year after year, the bandit continued to
swoop down on luckless travelers. Three times in the past year he
reportedly had made valuable hauls of emeralds which were being taken
out of the mine for shipment.
Despite Jose’s fears, no more was heard that night from the bandit. The
Scouts slept well, and as soon as the sun came up, were on their way.
For several hours they pushed on, keeping an alert watch for Carlos. At
times, they imagined they heard a soft rustling of the foliage along the
trail, but they saw no one. Jack had kept the bandit’s automatic as a
souvenir, disregarding Jose’s advice to discard it.
“You keep gun—Carlos come back for it,” the guide predicted grimly.
“Let him,” Jack returned cheerfully. “Next time I’ll be more alert.”
By noon, the party had reached a low ridge. As they rested briefly, Jose
pointed out a forested valley and a fast-moving river.
“Last Chance mine,” he informed the group. “We be there in next hour.”
“The mine is very old?” Mr. Livingston inquired.
“_Si, Senor._ It was worked before the Spanish Conquest and many times
lost. When the mine close, workers move away—jungle close in. Mine have
many names.”
“The Last Chance sounds pretty modern,” the Scout leader remarked with a
smile.
“Senor Corning give it that name when he come,” Jose explained.
“I can imagine why,” Mr. Livingston remarked to Jack. “He figured that
if he didn’t make good here, the mine might be closed again. At least
the company which employs him would lose its government lease.”
“With Carlos hovering around ready to swoop down, I shouldn’t think
mining would be very profitable,” Ken contributed. “That old boy is a
pest! Maybe Mr. Corning sent for us to help him get rid of the hill
bandits.”
“I doubt it,” the Scout leader rejoined. “Corning would know how to deal
with Carlos. No, I’m afraid the trouble is more serious than that.”
Eager to reach the mine, the party went on, working through vines which
had overgrown the trail. After a wearisome struggle, they emerged onto a
wider path which showed evidence of recent use.
Finally, they came out into a clearing which offered a view of the mine.
Spread before them at the edge of a gorge were a cluster of wooden
buildings with thatched roofs. The largest, and most sturdily
constructed, they took to be the main office.
Weary and footsore, the arrivals left Jose in charge of the animals, and
tramped into the central building. Their approach had been observed by
native workmen. Yet, there had been no one to welcome them.
“Corning may be sick,” Mr. Livingston remarked anxiously.
He and the Scouts found themselves in an untidy two-room office,
furnished with a couch, a desk, a safe and a filing cabinet. As they
gazed about, a tall, lean man with dark moustache came in through the
door they had just entered.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he greeted them, politely but without a
flicker of a smile. “Anything I can do for you?”
“We’re looking for the engineer in charge,” Mr. Livingston said after a
moment of silence.
“Speaking.”
“Appleby Corning, I should have said,” the Scout leader corrected
himself.
“Corning no longer is in charge here.”
“Not in charge?” Mr. Livingston responded, startled. “There must be some
mistake.”
“No mistake, I assure you.”
“Is Mr. Corning ill?”
“I wouldn’t know,” the man replied somewhat indifferently. “He’s not
here. The last time I saw him was six months ago.”
“Six months!” the Scout leader exclaimed. “Impossible! Why, I’ve had
letters from him and a couple of cables since then.”
“Of that I wouldn’t know, Mr.—”
“Livingston,” the Scout official supplied. “Excuse me for not
introducing myself and the other members of my party. Seeing you instead
of my friend, rather gave me a jolt.”
“I can imagine,” the other rejoined coldly. “I’m McClellan Rhodes.”
“I guessed it,” Mr. Livingston returned. “You say you’re in charge here?
The company reassigned you?”
The engineer gazed at the Scout official with defiant, unwavering eyes.
“I took charge when I found everything going to the dogs here,” he
informed the group. “Someone had to do it, you understand. If I had
waited to get authority from the company, the workers would have been
gone, and the mine stripped.”
“Where is Mr. Corning?”
“I wish I knew.”
“When did you take over here?” Mr. Livingston demanded. His voice was
sharper than he meant it to be.
“About ten days ago.”
“Mr. Corning wasn’t here when you came?”
“He was not. As I told you, I found everything in a mess—workers
preparing to pull out. I stepped in to save the mine for the owners.”
“What became of my friend?”
“I’ve told you I don’t know,” the engineer replied, no longer hiding his
impatience. “I have important work to do now, and can’t answer any more
questions. Corning, I think, is dead. That’s all I can tell you.”